Harry Turtledove - In the Balance

Jens looked at a map he’d filched from an abandoned gas station. If he was where he thought he was, he’d soon be approaching the grand metropolis of Fiat, by God, Indiana. He managed a smile when he saw that, and declaimed, “And God said, Fiat, Indiana, and there was Indiana.”

His breath puffed out around him in a cloud of half-frozen fog. A couple of times, on really frigid days, he’d had it freeze in the mustache and beard he was growing. He hadn’t seen himself in a mirror any time lately, so he didn’t know what he looked like. He didn’t care, either. He’d decided scrounging for razor blades was a waste of time, and shaving without either mirror or hot water hurt too much to be worthwhile. Besides, the new growth. helped keep cheeks and chin warm. He wished he could sprout fur all over.

As he had on most of his journey, he owned the road. Cars and trucks just weren’t moving, especially not in this Lizard-occupied stretch of country. Trains weren’t moving much, either, and the few he’d seen had Lizards aboard. He’d wished for a white snow suit of his own, to keep from drawing their notice. But the aliens hadn’t paid any attention to him as they chugged by.

He supposed that was one advantage to having been invaded by creatures from another planet as opposed to, say, Nazis or Japs. The Lizards didn’t have a feel for what was normal on Earth. A Gestapo man, spotting a lone figure pedaling down a road, might well have wondered what he was up to and radioed an order to pick him up for questions. To the Lizards, he was just part of the landscape.

He rolled past a burned-out farmhouse and the twisted wreckage of a couple of cars. Snow covered but did not erase the scars of bomb craters in the fields. There had been fighting here, not so long ago. Jens wondered how far west into Indiana the Lizards’ control reached, and how hard crossing back into American-held territory would be.

(Down deep, he wondered if Chicago was still free; if Barbara was still alive; if this whole frozen trek wasn’t for nothing. He seldom let those thoughts rise to the surface of his mind. Whenever he did, the urge to keep going faltered.).

He peered ahead, shielding his eyes against snow glare with the palm of his hand. Yes, those were houses up there-either Fiat or, if he’d botched his navigation, some other equally unimpressive little hamlet.

Off to one side of the road, he saw little dark figures moving against the white-splashed background. Hunters, he thought In hard times, anything you could add to your larder was all to the good. A deer might mean the difference between starving and getting through the winter.

He was not a great outdoorsman (though he’d learned a lot lately), but one good glance at how the dark figures moved warned him his first hasty thought was wrong. Hunters, at least of the human variety, did not walk like that. It was some sort of Lizard patrol.

And, worse luck, they’d seen him, too. They broke off whatever they were doing and came toward the road. He thought about diving off his bike and running away from them, but no surer way to get himself shot came to mind. Better to assume the air of an innocent traveler out and about.

One of the Lizards waved to him. He waved back, then stopped his bicycle and waited for them to come up. The closer they got, the more motley and miserable they looked. That struck him as somehow wrong; bug-eyed monsters weren’t supposed to have troubles of their own. At least, they never did in the Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon serials.

But a couple of the Lizards were tricked out in their own kind’s shiny cold-weather gear, while the rest had draped themselves with a rummage sale’s worth of stolen human coats, mufflers, hats, snow pants, and boots. They looked like sad little tramps, and they also looked frozen in spite of everything they had on. They were, in fact, so many Winter Fritzes in the scaly flesh.

The one who had waved led the squad out onto the roadway, which was hardly less snow-covered than the surrounding fields. “Who you?” he asked Larssen in English. His exhaled breath steamed around him.

“My name is Pete Smith,” Jens answered. He’d been questioned by Lizard patrols before, and never gave his real name on the off chance that they’d somehow compiled a list of nuclear physicists. He didn’t give the same alias twice, either.

“What you do, Pete Ssmith? Why you out?” The Lizard turned the first sound in Larssen’s assumed surname into a long hiss and pronounced the th at the end as a Cockney’s ff .

“I’m going to visit my cousins. They live a little past Montpelier,” Jens said, naming the small town just west of Fiat on his map.

“You not cold?” the Lizard said. “Not cold on that-that thing?” He’d evidently forgotten the word bicycle.

“Of course I’m cold,” Larssen answered; he had the feeling the Lizard would have shot him if he’d dared deny it. Hoping he sounded properly indignant, he went on, “Have to go by bike if I want to go, though. Don’t have any gas for my car.” That was true for everybody these days. He didn’t mention that his dead car was back in eastern Ohio.

The Lizards sounded like steam engines as they talked among themselves. The one who’d been questioning Larssen said, “You come with us. We ask you more things.” He gestured with his gun to make sure Jens got the point.

“I don’t want to do that!” Larssen exclaimed, which was true for both his Pete Smith persona and his very own self. If the Lizards did any serious questioning, they’d find out he didn’t know much about his alleged cousins west of Montpelier. They might even find out he didn’t have any cousins west of Montpelier. And if they found that out, they’d likely start doing some serious digging about who he really was and why he was biking across eastern Indiana.

“Not care what you want,” the Lizard said. “You come with us. Or you stay.” He brought the rifle up to point straight at the middle of Larssen’s chest The message was clear: if he stayed here, he’d stay forever. The Lizard spoke in his own language, maybe translating for his friends what he’d told Jens. Their mouths fell open. Larssen had seen that before, often enough to figure out what it meant. They were laughing at him.

“I’ll come,” he said, as he had to. The Lizards formed up on either side of his bicycle and escorted him into Fiat.

The town wasn’t even a wide spot on Highway 18, just a few houses, a general store, an Esso station (its pumps now snow-covered mounds), and a church along the side of the road. The store was probably the main reason the town existed. A couple of children ran shoutmg across the empty pavement of the highway, pelting each other with snowballs. They didn’t even look up when the Lizards went past; by now they were used to them. Kids adapt fast, Larssen. thought. He wished he did.

The Lizards had turned the general store into their headquarters. A razor-wire fence ringed the building to keep anyone from getting too close. A portable pillbox sat in front of the store. Larssen wouldn’t have envied a human on duty in there. It had to seem even chillier for one of the invaders.

A blast of heat hit him in the face when the Lizards opened the store’s front door. He went from too cold to too hot in the space of a few seconds. Sweat glands he’d thought dormant till summer suddenly returned to life. In his wool hat, overcoat, and sweater, he felt like a main dish in a covered kettle that had just been moved from the icebox to the oven.

“Ahh!” The Lizards all said it together. As one, they stripped off their layers of insulation and drank in the heat they loved so well. They did not object when Larssen shed his own coat and hat and, a moment later, his sweater. Even in shirt and trousers, he was too warm. But while the Lizards took nudity in stride, the last time he’d been naked in public was at a swimming hole when he was thirteen years old. He left the rest of his clothes on.